


les vignettes des M

by FLWhite



Category: Matthias & Maxime (2019)
Genre: Alcohol, Angst, Banter, Cannabis, Childhood Friends, Friends to Lovers, Friendship is Magic, Hijinks, Implied Public Sex, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Quebecois cussin', Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Repression, Video Chat, bromance vincit omnia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:21:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26291803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FLWhite/pseuds/FLWhite
Summary: You love that creative titling, I know it.Four short Matt and Max vignettes; one pre- and three post-film.First vignette set when the boys are in high school, hence the "underage" warning. All mutual sexual contact features them being of age, however.
Relationships: Maxime Leduc/Matthias Ruiz
Comments: 9
Kudos: 55





	1. keep it down

**Author's Note:**

> [@hallo-catfish (ryuujitsu)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryuujitsu) and I really enjoyed this offering from Xavier! Friends to lovers is the absolute mushy weakness in my cold, dead heart. The chemistry was frighteningly natural among the buddies and between Les M.
> 
> After one installment of The Sads, please find three of hijinks and silliness.

_ Over the squeak-squeak of the dishtowels on Rivette’s china, Matthias sounds remote, hollow, a rattling echo against an unyielding peak when he says—snaps—that he doesn’t remember  _ that time  _ they kissed in high school.  _

_ Well, Max remembers.  _

The glowing numbers on the ancient cartoon dinosaur clock that he and Julien once redeemed with twenty-five cereal box tops flash three-fifteen. Lying in his saggy bottom bunk, in the dark, eyes aching and mouth sore, his mind spins round and round, a dumb marble speeding toward the black hole of a single question: was it that fourth Fireball shot or the half a Solo cup of crap box wine, after, that did it? That did this? That swept a perfectly fine, perfectly fun, perfectly _normal_ Saturday night at Frank’s all sideways and upside-down and wrong? 

He puts his hand over his mouth, as though he can press the surging nausea back down his throat, and the pressure of his own knuckles against his lips is another reminder of what— _ who _ —else had been against those lips, no more than forty minutes ago. Oh, ostie de câlice de tabarnak.  _ Ta-bar-nak. _ He’s surrounded by Matt. Matt’s smell, the slight must of fresh-fallen leaves mixed with warm salt; Matt’s taste, inexpressible but also so immediately and obviously  _ Matt _ under the cheap cinnamon sting of the Fireballs. Matt’s hand on the back of his neck, firm and a little sweaty. Matt’s eyelashes against the bridge of his nose, against his cheek. Matt’s tongue, that  _ maudit _ tongue that he doesn’t even dare think more about. The infinitely small groan that he’s not even completely sure he heard, right before Matt shoved himself away and just about fell off the weird daybed-futon-couch thing covered in the shed hairs of Frank’s dog and cats. 

Câlice de ciboire de sacrament. The others hadn’t started laughing right away. That’s how he’s sure it’d looked bad. In that long, long beat of nothing, he’d kept his eyes tightly shut; the horrible documentary he’d watched half of one time a couple years ago when they were still getting cable had flashed to mind, in the sickly silence. A pretty blond boy down in the States, one of those big square states, beaten, stripped, torn apart and left to die by people he’d thought were his friends, because he’d been too obviously a fag. And sure, Rivette came out early last school year and Frank’s cousin has been, according to Frank anyway, gay since the day he was born and Brass once solemnly swore he’d fuck young Keanu Reeves if he could travel back in time and they’re all always rolling around and cuddling, practically. 

But Maxime’s old enough to know that he’s definitely not pretty, and that cuddling isn’t  _ kissing _ . Kissing like their tongues are supermagnets, like they’re trying to eat each other alive. And, in spite of all the libations he’s poured down his throat this night, he’s also sober enough to know that he had enjoyed the kissing—very  _ clearly _ enjoyed it. As in, thank Jesus fucking Christ Frank had turned out the pot lights in the game room to show off his new black light lava lamp so nobody, or at least he hopes nobody, noticed his fucking half hard-on. 

And unlike that poor blond kid’s parents, he can’t see Ma running to the press or the cops or giving speeches about love trumping hate or whatever. Fat lot of good Julien would do, either, always shutting up when Ma tells him to. 

With his lids squeezed together, half-kneeling on the daybed, he’d just hoped that if the guys were going to beat him, or make him leave, or first one then the other, that they’d do it fast. So when they finally started cracking up, it had been wonderful. 

So wonderful that he’d gulped down another shot of Fireball with the others. So wonderful that he’d studiously not sat down again next to Matt. So wonderful that he’d loudly announced that he forgot that the social worker would be coming at ten on Sunday and no, the night bus was perfectly fine, and no, he didn’t need to borrow one of Frank’s toques, it’s only November, did he look like he came from Toronto? So wonderful that he’d wanted to cry, jamming his feet into his stupid shoes while ignoring everybody’s protests, everybody except Matt, who’d suddenly looked extremely intrigued by his drink.

He  _ had  _ maybe cried a little, waiting for the bus, because fuck if he hadn’t caught a glimpse of the bit of tongue poking from between Matt’s lips as as it always did when its owner frowned his “leave me alone” frown, and fuck if the sight didn’t make him seriously consider beating off under his coat in the back of the nearly deserted bus on the dark and endless ride home. At least then he wouldn’t risk tripping over himself and breaking his neck on the stairs trying to scuttle up them with the kind of erection he is pretty sure isn’t supposed to be even possible when you were this completely smashed. 

Fortunately, his piece-of-shit phone had gone off like a siren and, for once, his mother screaming so hard he could practically hear the usual after-shift booze on the line had been a relief. Relief because it killed his boner almost immediately, and relief because if she’d done anything more than just a half-dozen double rum-and-cokes, she wouldn’t be calling.

But now even thinking about the perennial irony of being called enfant de chienne by your own mother doesn’t do the trick. His hand is down the front of his sweatpants almost before he’s able to shut his eyes so he doesn’t have to actually see what he’s doing, and right away he’s thinking about that little pink mosel of Matt’s tongue, the none-too-light scrape of Matt’s teeth; he’s imagining the delicious threat of those teeth against the head of his cock; he’s imagining the concentrated taste of Matt in the back of his throat; he’s stuffing his fingers into his mouth so that any further sudden yelps will be duly contained; he’s stumbling and sliding to the bathroom, bruising his knees on the tile, gripping the creaky seat weakly as he vomits for what feels like ten thousand years. Then, with the now-cold stickiness of his shame across his belly and splashed on the waistband of the sweatpants, he cries again. No tears, just a burning around his eyes and his throat so tight that he gags and gags. 

From the open door of the bedroom, Julien mumbles, “Tabaranak de criss, keep it down.”


	2. on a jet plane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At last he managed to wrestle himself free. “Ciboire de criss, what’s going on with you?”
> 
> Matt’s eyes were enormous, dark, frightening and lovely and frighteningly lovely. “I—we need to talk.”

_ As the plane reaches cruising altitude and the seatbelt signs ping-pong melodically as they are turned off, he’s still staring at nothing. Some vital bit of his brain and his heart has been left below.  _

_ And some other precious bodily fluids, too. He grimaces, then chuckles. _

In retrospect, there was no warning. Better part of an hour in the back of Frank’s car, both of them, his embarrassment at this seating arrangement burning off into something like indignation when he realized that Matt was really just going to sit there in silence, looking at the midday sun flaring on the traffic as it rushed by, his hand parked like a slightly sweaty rock on top of Max’s on the crumb-gritty upholstery. Frank, thank God, stepped up to exchange banter with him about koalas and Crocodile Dundee as though there were no Matthias-shaped elephant in the car with them. 

And then, as they slowed, approaching the drop-off line for the international terminal, there was a sudden movement beside him, as though Matt had been asleep with his eyes open the whole time. When they stopped, Matt sprang out without checking if there were cars pulling through behind him and heaved the ratty-cornered single suitcase out of the trunk like the world’s least tip-worthy porter. 

Then he barely had time to throw an arm around Frank; Matt practically dragged him off and away as Frank called, “Hey—hey, where you goin’?”

“Inside. I’ll call a cab or something. Thanks for the ride. See you later,” Matt replied, hand firm around Max’s wrist. He was talking so quickly that Max stared: was he high? 

At last he managed to wrestle himself free. “Ciboire de criss, what’s going on with you?”

Matt’s eyes were enormous, dark, frightening and lovely and frighteningly lovely. “I—we need to talk.”

He snorted out loud, thankful for the bustle all around, which meant that he had something else to look at beside those eyes. “You literally said not a fucking syllable for forty-five minutes.”  _ For nine weeks before that. And twelve goddamn years before  _ that _.  _ With a sweep of the hand not gripping the suitcase’s handle, he added, “Go on. Talk.”

“In  _ private _ , Max. Private. Oh—they have those single-stall washrooms—fuck,  _ yes _ .” His wrist was grabbed again, and his protests were soon lost in huffing and puffing as they sped across the linoleum, Matt the runaway locomotive and him the squeaking caboose. Presently it became clear that the locomotive was not only off his rails, but also lost. He muttered under his breath, between prodigious strings of curses, about how he was  _ sure  _ the maudite bécosse was near Door Three. 

The caboose tried to put on his brakes, but just then his wrist was given a shake: the washroom had been discovered, hiding behind the Air Canada counter all this while. Into it they ran, barely pausing long enough to make sure the coast was clear. 

“—definitely cameras,” he mumbled when Matt, having kicked the door shut behind them, finally let him up for air. “They definitely got us on camera sprinting in here like—like nuts.” Matt made a dismissive noise against his collarbone, then sucked on it. “ _ Coliss— _ Matt!” 

“They’re going to come break down the door if you’re screeching like  _ that _ .” He was ungently pushed backward toward the already deployed changing table. “C’mon.” He got on the table; his feet dangled just like they had when he’d been sitting on the counter at Shariff’s. 

The table squeaked, taking his weight. Then it groaned full-throatedly in duet with him as Matt, pressing cheek to hip against him, also leaned heavily on it. “Tabar _ nak _ ,” Matt hissed in his ear, dragging them both backward and into a corner before the table had a chance to give way. “Someone sue ‘em for sizeist infrastructure.”

He giggled at this, giddy as a kid, the anger of the ride buried by the undiluted rush of Matt touching him and the recent sear of Matt’s mouth on his. Then Matt’s palm, clapped flat and firm over his mouth, shut him up again. 

They thrashed a little together, Matt pawing at Max with his head down like an animal seeking heat, or blood; if his thigh weren’t pushed against the very resolute hard-on in the crotch of Matt’s jeans, Max would’ve been almost afraid. “Hey,” he said, plaintively, trying to seize Matt’s roving hands, “Hey. I should be going.” Not for the first time, he cursed the inches Matt has had on him since they were sixteen. To think: he’d once been the taller one. The first time he’d tasted Matt’s tongue, that bad night at Frank’s—he’d been taller, still, then. 

“Matt. Matthias. Shit, hey!” It was almost painful to make himself pull his face out of Matt’s hair, which, somehow, had never stopped smelling a little like a nicer version of a Fireball, all cinnamon and smoke, after all these years. “What happened to  _ talking _ ?”

“We have no  _ time _ ,” Matt growled, rocking backward on his heels. He sniffed once, then immediately turned his head away, but not before Max, startled, saw the rings of sudden redness around his eyes. 

“I’m not going forever,” he began, wonderingly: who was this man whose hands he held? The last time he’d seen Matt cry had been in junior high, at the one fancy house party they’d all been invited to in Westmount. Francine and Ronaldo had finalized the divorce the week before. He’d been there on the curb beside Matt first, brought out a second Molson. Matt had stopped crying before the others also came out and crowded around for a while, drunk but solemnly quiet. By the time they had ended up at a Couche-Tard where Rivette bought Matt an extra-large blue sloche, Matt had been wishing aloud that he had more pairs of parents who could divorce to earn himself more sloches. And he’d laughed with them.

No sloches on hand, this time. Just him and his worldly goods and his overly enthusiastic dick. “It—It’ll go by fast.” He could feel Matt’s palms, sandwiched between his own, sweating more now. “They have the Internet in Australia, too.” Encouraged by Matt’s low  _ heh _ , he continued, carefully, “and uh, you could come visit. Maybe.” He cringed at Matt’s look of shock. “You don’t have to, I mean—”

“No, no,” Matt rummaged in his back pocket briefly, extracted his phone, then waved it about. “I forgot to tell you, fucking hell _ Christ _ ,  __ the most important thing—” he thrust the phone at Max, wildly; for several moments all Max could make out was the Air Canada logo. 

“Uh—” He took the phone. He read the screen. His mouth opened and shut a couple of times. 

“I—I bought for the sixteenth, I can’t get away until we close this case, but definitely by then—” Matt’s mouth also opened and shut. “Oh, câlice, I mean, I just bought it on the Uber over to your place on my phone, I—October’s way too soon, isn’t it? Hold on, wait, I can change it for free for twenty-four hours, or I, uh, I think I can. I,” his voice began to dwindle, to slow. “Didn’t read the fine print. Christ shitting fuck. Fuck. Sorry.”

Max did the only thing he could, which was to put his hand on Matt’s cheek, rubbing his fingertips into the stubble; he followed them with his lips and his cheek, though the latter still smarted from the earlier friction of Matt’s mauling. “No, I know.” He tried not to tremble too much. “I know. You get sick reading in cars.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How many times can I watch these losers make out? Infinite times, maybe.


	3. still good

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He swallows, watching Matt dip both thumbs under the waistband of his jeans, then hesitate. 
> 
> “Uh,” Matt says, hoarsely, then tries again. “Uh, we—we still good?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, earning the explicit rating.

_ Of course it’s not how he imagined it—when he’d allowed himself to imagine it.  _

_ Which hadn’t been very often. _

He’s never done any of this before. Well, not quite, but nothing more than putting his hand on Matt’s dick through his boxers in Shariff’s house, for barely a minute, and then, in that airport washroom, letting Matt finish what  _ he’d _ started that night. Sure, he’s surreptitiously waded plenty of times into the waters of gay porn with no lifeguard on duty; he’s spent plenty of time marooning himself on the black shoals of guilt for it, too. 

But no number of viewings of “Straight Boys First Time Cumpilation #8” could possibly have readied him for this. And yet, so far, it’s all stuff he’s seen a hundred times over the last twenty years: how the muscles of Matt’s back and flanks shift when he’s pulling his T-shirt over his head. How Matt always runs his left hand first through his hair, when it falls into his face too much. How he bites his upper lip a little with his bottom teeth when he’s very nervous. He swallows, watching Matt dip both thumbs under the waistband of his jeans, then hesitate. 

“Uh,” Matt says, hoarsely, then tries again. “Uh, we—we still good?”

He doesn’t trust himself to talk, so he just nods like a worn-out bobblehead toy, lifting his left hand slowly, slowly, like he’s approaching a wild creature; as his fingertips make contact with Matt’s side, he winces, braced to be jarred awake by his alarm going off. But all that happens is that Matt exhales gingerly. The warm ridge of muscle joining his ribs to his hip, up which Max’s fingers now haltingly climb, flexes a little. “I, I don’t actually know what, uh, what I’m doing. What we’re doing.” He shakes his head. “I mean, we’re doing—no, I get that. I—yes, that’s good. I just mean, I’ve never—I don’t know what you—”

Max looks at his own hand, hovering over Matt’s right nipple like a frightened bird. He looks at it descend; he looks at it give the nipple a pretty substantial pinch. He savors Matt’s gratifying little gasp. 

Later, curled sweating with just the sheet over them, he’ll swear to Matt that he heard something actually  _ click  _ behind his eyes right then.

In the moment, though, he only thinks  _ let me show you. Show you what’s good.  _ He leans in. He tongues first the pinched nipple, then the other. His arms fold behind Matt’s back, fingers splayed against the furrowing muscles overlaying the shoulderblades, scratching. 

“Sit down.” Matt obeys, panting, eyes half-closed. A flush stains his neck and chest, and Max lays his own stained cheek against the heat and heartbeat there, murmuring. “I wanna suck your dick now.” Matt’s eyes open, very wide. With his dark-brown halo of hair, he looks like an especially surprised Byzantine icon. “Okay?”

“I—uh, I,  _ oh _ ,” says Matt, as Max drops to his knees. “Criss de—” he pushes his forearm against his mouth, falling backward onto Max’s bed, the shitty mattress of which squeals in complaint and bounces him a little. The other arm he puts over his face as he shudders. “ _ Fuck _ !”

Max shuts his own eyes as he clenches his lips tight around Matt’s cockhead; the sensation of power is almost as overwhelming as the velvet bitterness under his tongue. He rests his cheek on Matt’s thigh and breathes through his nose and curls his fist around the base and yeah, he’s not ashamed, anymore, of having so closely studied that one How To Please Your Man article in a copy of Cosmo his mother had “accidentally” lifted from the hair salon. 

In a way, he should be grateful to her for this moment, and he’s mildly surprised to find that he is. He feels generous and transcendent; why not, when he can make the most beautiful man he’s ever seen choke back a scream by just kneading his fingers in the right places. And then he kneads maybe in too right a place, and Matt bucks, nearly kneeing him in the stomach. “Sorry, marde, sorry,” Matt says, sitting up halfway and putting a hand on his shoulder. “You okay?”

He replies by taking a deep breath, opening his mouth, and taking Matt as deep as he can. Having discreetly experimented on a number of unfortunate bananas following his perusal of the Cosmo article, and having also made himself barf a couple of times after a rowdy night when he knew not barfing would make the hangover worse, he knows his mouth’s capacity is impressive. The whining noise Matt is making suggests complete concurrence. 

With one hand still probing and kneading and the other tight around the leg of the bed, he levers himself up and down for a while, unmercifully hard, then, still with the peaceful sense of perfect control coursing through him, he gargles and groans, letting himself dribble onto the rumpled bedspread at the same time as he strokes hard with two fingers the earlier spot, an knuckle or so behind Matt’s balls. 

“No—” Matt cries, but it’s too late; he comes in jerks and spasms so hard that the mattress, with a fit of metallic yowling, nearly rolls both of them off the bed. Max slides to his feet, stands. As though wringing speech out of himself, Matt says, “Wait. Still—still good?”

He looks at the most beautiful man he’s ever seen, lying flat on his bed, adorned with a spatter of cum like a spray of wet flowers across the belly, with eyes gone so hazy and soft that they look melted, with hair caught by sweat and friction on forehead and cheek. “Yes, still good.”


	4. home invasion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Esti de câlice, how long are you gonna keep pretending?” At their blank looks, Brass throws up both hands. With long pauses between each syllable, he says, “Pretendin’ that you two aren’t fucking, bro.”

_ At first the Saturday video call is every week, until Rivette’s Michaelmas term ends and he only has papers to write and no class to attend; then, it becomes Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays.  _

_ Saturday is still the big one, though; Shariff can’t make Fridays and Brass is usually on a night shift Wednesdays. _

“Yo, there he is,” yells Brass, putting down his bong. “At long pissing last.” They all clap and cheer, half ironically, as Max appears onscreen, looking rumpled. “Sleeping in, hey? Isn’t it like noon over there already?”

“Ten forty-three,” Max yawns hugely. “Stones from a glass house, Brass.” Shariff elbows him as everyone chortles, Rivette as usual made a bit tinny by the close walls of his little student garret. “Man, Shariff, is that a fucking beignet? Could do with one of those.”

Shariff swallows his sweet mouthful of dough. “Where are your kangaroo meat pies and—and câlice, your octopus pizzas, man?”

“That was just  _ once  _ for Insta. You know how much those things cost?”

Frank tips his tallboy at the camera. “Thought you said they were good tippers down  _ undah _ .”

“Not daily octopus pizza tippers.” Max suddenly looks offscreen. “Um, hold on, guys.” There is the thump of him putting down the iPad; he turns off his camera, but leaves the sound on. In Shariff’s living room, Brass, Shariff, and Frank involuntarily lean in, just as Rivette does the same in his creaky chair across the Atlantic. Dimly, they make out Max’s voice rising in alarm.

“Esti de sacrament,” Frank says. “What if he’s getting robbed or something?”

Rivette rolls his eyes. “On the fifteenth floor?” Frank shrugs. “More likely to be some kind of feral creature invasion, if you ask me.” 

“What if it’s poisonous, then?” They all start at an unmistakable crash and more yells; Max has not come back to turn on the video. 

“Tabarnak, what if it is?” There is a scramble; Brass and Frank for their phones, Shariff reducing the size of the video call window on his laptop to pull up Google; the others politely ignore the entire window full of Pornhub tabs that flashes briefly onscreen along the way. “Fuck, is it this Federal Police number or the Victoria one? Don’t they have cops just for Melbourne?” 

Rivette is biting all of the nails on his left hand at once as he clicks frantically with his mouse. “I think it’s the Victoria ones. Or is the fire department better, in case it really is an—animal or something?” The trio on Shariff’s couch groans loudly. 

“It’s not gonna be a maudite  _ spider _ , Princess.” Brass triumphantly begins dialing on his phone. Then he scowls at it. “Marde de criss, these people’s accents. I can barely understand a thing this recordin’s saying.” 

Frank throws himself across Shariff to grab for Brass’s phone. “You niasieux,” he says, after listening for a moment. “This is just Telus saying you don’t have the Global Caller plan.”

“Hold on, hold on, I’m dialing too,” cries Rivette. “Let me do it, I actually speak English.” Before he has a chance to demonstrate his prowess, however, there is another jarring thump, and though the camera still doesn’t come on, they all hear Max again, very loud and very close to the microphone of his iPad. 

“Hey? Sorry, guys—”

Frank gasps, “Criss de câlice, are you hiding in the bathroom?” The others join in, squawking. “What did those fuckers take?” “Did they get you?”

“Wha—no, what?” Max stammers. “What fuckers?”

“Shitting Jesus Christ,” Shariff says around another bite of beignet. “Rivette, did you get through to the cops?” Rivette nods frantically, gesturing at his headset to indicate that he’s been put on hold.

Max’s voice jumps a half-octave. “The  _ who _ ? Wait, what?"

“Of all the days for the fucking  _ lawyer  _ to go to some dumb shit  _ conference _ , the day we call the cops—” 

On Max’s end, there is a wild clacking as though of knuckles against a door, and another voice, distant and indistinct, followed by Max’s frantic whisper. “Shh, no, I don’t know! Wait, stop—”

The other voice blares, sudden and clear. “What’s going on?” They all freeze. “Guys? Are you okay?” Some rustling and tapping later, Max’s iPad camera switches back on, with Matt’s face, heavily shadowed by stubble, filling its entire wobbling field of view; then it jitters backward in his grip. He is wearing only a pair of boxers. His hair is a blurry dark nest. “Did the cops come or—”

No one says anything for a while. Rivette’s mouth is ajar until he shakes himself, suddenly, and fumbles at his headset. “Sorry, sir. Uh, no, I dialed the wrong—yes, sorry. Bye.” His English is indeed very good; Cambridge has even given his accent a slight plumminess. Then he throws down the headset and screams directly into his webcam. “What is this, Ruiz!”

“What is—huh? Max, let go—” There is a small scuffle; in nauseatingly rapid succession, the iPad takes in the ceiling, the mint-green wall of Max’s bathroom, the glow of late-morning sun outside the narrow window. At last it is put down on the sink counter and Max reappears. Everyone is shouting at once. 

“Okay—” Max raises his palms, appeasingly. When that does nothing, he shouts in turn. “Hey. Hey, guys! Shut up!  _ Shut the hell up _ !” He glares offscreen. “If you’d let  _ me _ make the pissing coffee in the first place— ” 

Matt sounds fifty-fifty annoyed and contrite. “I was doing totally fine, you just stuffed too much shit in that cabinet. Fucking safety hazard.”

“Shit that I bought because  _ you’re  _ the fancy one who doesn’t drink black coffee—” Max gives Matt a mock-punch; he returns it. They chuckle foolishly. Rivette, with a look of extraordinary exasperation, has put his head into his hands. 

“Yeah, that’s right, Rivette, that’s right. Better get that gaydar tuned up.” Brass snaps his fingers at Frank and Shariff. “Pay up, you losers.” He snaps also at Rivette, who groans. “C’mon. You know my e-transfer email.”

“Pay?” Matt, quite suddenly grave, lifts the iPad, turns it; he has seated himself next to Max on the lip of the bathtub. They are exchanging a glance. 

“I called it all the way back in September. After Shariff’s party. And then when Sarah dumped your ass.” Brass thumbs his nose at Shariff, who is sighing as he shuffles through his wallet. “These losers thought I was crazy. Et voilà.” 

“Called—called what?” 

“Esti de câlice, how long are you gonna keep pretending?” At their blank looks, Brass throws up both hands. With long pauses between each syllable, he says, “Pretendin’ that you two aren’t  _ fucking _ , bro.” Though Max turns instantly away, he doesn’t do it fast enough to hide his tomato-colored face. Matt is seized by a fit of coughing; there is one moment of silence, then another—too long for plausible deniability. Brass, wolf-whistling, begins to clap and call for champagne. Frank rolls his eyes with fondness and joins in the hooting. Shariff dances over to the liquor cabinet. Rivette lifts his face from his palms and shakes his head at the commotion, but there’s no suppressing the grin that overtakes him. 

Eventually Matt manages, “Sorry. We–we couldn’t figure out how to tell you.”

The others cackle. “You shitheads.” “Thought you were being so subtle.” “ _ Such  _ secret,  _ much _ stealthy.” “Yeah, we’ll never forgive you.” “Not in ten million years.” “Fifty million.” “If you hurt a hair on Max’s little head, we’ll fuckin’  _ end _ you.” They swap high-fives, with a virtual one for Rivette, who gamely pretends to slap his screen.

“Hey, what about  _ my _ head?” Matt puts his arm around Max’s shoulders. “I see you all have certain  _ assumptions _ about us.” Max, still very red, elbows him; he pretends to swoon. “See?”

“You two had some too.” “Yeah.” “Rivette came out when we were fif fuckin’ teen!” “I was a goddamn  _ pioneer _ , you copycats.” “You thought we were gonna exile you for gayness?” “Yo, they  _ are  _ in Australia.” “True.” 

Rivette puts his face close to his camera. “Just bring Max back home soon. At least for Christmas.” He smiles, then sniffles, wiping at the corner of his eyes. “I miss you guys.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! It's been exciting to see others posting their M&M work--a little bit of light in a world that often feels very much off its axis.


End file.
